


Moondust

by birdsandivory



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Matt Holt-centric, Shatt, background klance, heavy words and heavy hearts, im sorry, look this needed to be done
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-08-29 10:15:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16742101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/birdsandivory/pseuds/birdsandivory
Summary: “You know, on our first date, we had spaghetti-o’s. Or… at least, the space version of them.” The person behind him doesn’t answer, but he knows they’re still there, probably respectfully waiting for him to continue. So, he does. “I had wanted to tell him before the Kerberos Mission, just let it out, but I was too chicken - too afraid of the consequences. Ended up spilling it right smack dab in the middle of dinner one night with nowhere to run.”Matt laughs to himself at the memory, and though mirthless, the thought fills his chest with a missed warmth. “I mean, where can you run in space?”





	Moondust

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally for an Anon on Tumblr, but after writing it, I feel like it's really for myself. I hope you all can forgive me, but I think this is a very cathartic and interesting piece!

“I’m so sorry for your loss.”

The voice is _so_ familiar.

Matt doesn’t bother turning around, though, not now — not when his hand is pressed to the cold lid of a coffin holding the only thing he’s ever loved as much as the galaxy herself, a one Takashi Shirogane, bereft of his soul for the last time. In fact, despite the voice bringing back memories of eating fake ice cream and floating in zero gravity, he doesn’t turn around because he can’t stand the thought of there being another promise given that will never be kept. Big, brown eyes be damned — he isn’t going to give in.

But, still.

_“I’m so sorry for your loss.”_

He doesn’t register who the voice belongs to, he’s dealt with so many family members handing him their condolences already that he’s sure another one will put him over the edge if he doesn’t turn on autopilot now.

Matt doesn’t account for what happens the moment he stops himself from spewing pre-written _thank you so much for being here’s_ or _it means a lot to me’s._

The truth just finds its way forth.

“You know, on our first date, we had spaghetti-os. Or… at least, the space version of them.” The person behind him doesn’t answer, but he knows they’re still there, probably respectfully waiting for him to continue. So, he does. “I had wanted to tell him before the Kerberos Mission, just let it out, but I was too chicken — too afraid of the consequences. Ended up spilling it right smack dab in the middle of dinner one night with nowhere to run.”

Matt laughs to himself at the memory, and though mirthless, the thought fills his chest with a missed warmth. “I mean, where can you run in space?”

He thinks he can hear footsteps and the sound of his guest taking a seat upon the pews, heavy and with purpose. Part of him hopes it’s Keith; he understands him, as someone as close to Shiro as he could ever be, he _understands._

With that desire in his heart, he goes on. “He just slurped up a noodle and said, _‘well, consider this our first date.’_ ”

The last few words are a whisper as his throat begs for a thick swallow, and he can feel the painful prick of tears in the corners of his eyes, teeth gritting until it hurts — if just to stop their shed. That day was one of the best of his life. And Matt can’t help but wonder if thinking about it will always make his heart sink, will always pierce his chest and twist his lungs.

Yet, with a hand clutching the coffin and another moving to grasp his heart, he swears that, “I was _so_ happy.”

For a moment, he believes he hears someone say _“tell me more.”_ But he convinces himself, he _knows,_ that it’s all in his head. They said nothing, no doubt, they’re just listening — letting him _let it all go._ At least, he wants to think that’s the reason.

If it is, then maybe it’s Hunk behind him, but he realizes quickly that he’d be hearing the man’s inability to keep muffled sobs quiet if it were.

He reaches out to smooth his hands along the coffin lid again — the surface just barely warmed by his touch.

“We used to count the days with our fingernails in the Galra prisons… _before_ we got separated.” Matt doesn’t know why he goes there, what business he _has_ going there, but he does — because if someone doesn’t know, then it will die with him, and he doesn’t want to bear that weight alone. “I was weaker then, and I was desperate for a little bit of sanity. Just a _little._ ”

He steps forward as much as he can and rests his elbows on the marble encasing Shiro’s body, covering his face with his hands as he’s teleported back into the lair of the enemy. He’s feeble, afraid, sick of everything and everyone until a strong arm wraps around his shoulders. “He would drag his finger over the compacted dirt and cement until he made a tally, nails all bloody and torn. I’d fret after, I’d tell him to stop, but it always made me feel better to look at them. I think he knew that.”

Matt fails to mention the fact that, soon after Shiro had left him at the Arena, he’d taken to the crimson stain himself. He marked the days in mundane algorithm, counting the hours until he found once again the only one that mattered to him as much as the expanse of the universe. And he never stopped, even then, because—

 _Every_ moment is precious.

And he won’t stop, _even now,_ because there’s still something to look forward to, still someone to find.

Even if it’s on the other side.

In his heart, Matt knows that whoever is behind him _isn’t_ Lance; he’s thankful, because the paladin would be the only one with sense enough to try and pull him back together and pick up the pieces. He’s a good man like that, always has been, but the rebel knows he can’t take it. His pieces are too fragile, great and weighty and far too many to be repaired by that golden heart. He hopes that the other’s with Keith, holding his hand through the hardship and cracking jokes, reminiscing happily — so long as he isn’t behind him.

And he isn’t.

Matt’s grateful for that mercy.

“We, ah,” his voice is wavering like the strings of an unstable violin, but he holds back because his next memory is far too sweet for sadness, a tune of doves rather than sparrows, “we went straight home after the war, you know.”

Laughter echoes in the room. “Well, of course you know. Something tells me you were there.”

For a second, not once looking back, he thinks it’s Allura — how it _must_ be her on the pews, so patient. But he knows she won’t dwell where she isn’t wanted, and though he loves her as he loves all of his friends, his heart would sooner break now at the sight of her guilty face. She blames herself for this, the whole thing, even though no one else would possibly.

…Maybe it’s better this way.

“ _I_ went straight home, anyway. I never figured out where Shiro had gone, though I’ve always wondered.” He looks far off for less than a beat, “it never mattered, though. The night we took off with our families, he showed up at my door, smiling as if the fact that he had no one to go home to never crossed his mind. It was the first time I thought, _‘he doesn’t belong anywhere else but here.’_ With us, with his family, with me.”

The more he talks, the harder it feels to breathe, but he has to say these things — he _has_ to hold on.

“I know he thought so, too.”

Broken hands fall from his face, and he stares at them as though he didn’t realize they had been there, pulling his own flesh raw.

Ocre eyes crease painfully then, because he knows _— more than anything_ — that he’s not talking to Pidge. He’s not speaking to his sister. And it’s not the mannerisms or the silence, he just knows. He knows because he’s always known her best and it’s just _not_ Katie.

How can he wish that it was?

“Everything moved so fast after that.” Curling his hands into fists, he presses them together, as hard and hot as the lines of the suit he’s wearing. “Well, maybe not _so_ fast. Still took us three years to get married.”

All he thinks about then is how good Shiro had looked in a tux, smiling impossibly wide with eyes so teary, the scar across his nose had been aggravated for days.

Matt thinks about how much he loves him for that moment.

“But… he told me he knew the second he met me.” Trying not to sniff, he gives in to his need, tucking his chin into the uncomfortable lapels cutting into his throat.

“That we’d always be together and it was just a matter of time.”

Everything is harder now — _breathing, hearing, seeing_ — sucking in a last breath seems better than this could ever be.

“We were supposed to do _everything_ together.” He muses, aching painfully. “I thought that — after all the things that happened…”

Matt takes a deep swallow of air, but it only feels like vines and thorns growing in his lungs.

“…he finally had everything he deserved.”

The silence drags like his body across a cockpit, slow — the burn of metal sheets scoring him with red welts that serve as reminders of every possible thing he’s ever won and lost. He hates how it makes him feel, like after all he’s said, every single memory of Shiro just happens to be a chain of words strung together by another mortal soul with a blood price on his head.

They were never infinite; they were never meant to be.

And the only thing that reels him back into the real world from the vacuum of space is a whisper in still wind.

“How did he go?”

The question is so innocent that he can’t even be upset at the calm in that unwavering voice, and he can’t brush it off because that very moment in time is so deeply ingrained in his mind, it plays like a cinematic record.

Over and over and _over._

“With a big, dumb smile on his face.” It hurts to choke out, the reply hollow, as if spoken by a stranger in the next room. “Even years into retirement, he was determined to save people.”

And save people, Shiro did, because that’s just who he was.

Matt doesn’t blame him for it, he doesn’t press fault into arms bound by the hands of rigor mortis, it wasn’t in him to do so. It was different then; he’d been so _proud_ of the Captain, he still is. He had come to terms with loving a man who loved everyone too much a long time ago. That’s not to say it doesn’t hurt, that it doesn’t make him want to pull his hair and scream at the thought that things could have been different if they just left the job to someone _else._

But, he could never have asked for such a thing. He was glad to support Shiro’s desire to protect, glad to lend a hand in him being a hero; it was the way of the world at that time.

“I went with him, you know.” His lips meet teeth roughly, a dam holding the raging rapids. “But I ended up with the rebels as a Commander — I should have stayed by his side.”

He shakes his head, leaning down to press his temple to a closed fist, and his words are so quiet — he’s nearly unheard. “We always get separated in space.”

After a moment, he stands upright before the hidden body, looking ahead at the stained glass window for the first time; the light is nearly too bright. “The last time I saw him was over a transmission. And he just smiled at me like he _knew…_ a big, dumb smile.”

The light flickers and he’s suddenly aware of the presence in the room, a hand closing around his beating heart, steel eyes and warm smile. He’s aware, too keenly, of who it is — who it _was._

But, maybe he knew right from the start.

Matt’s eyes screw shut, shoulders shaking and teeth gritting because he can no longer stop the taste of salt on his tongue, the wetness on his cheeks cold in comparison to how hot his face feels. He sucks in a deep breath, but it only becomes a shuddering, _strangled_ release — and he angrily wishes that the nails digging into his palms would distract him from the sudden closing of his throat.

He barely recognizes himself when he speaks.

“I should have _known,_ Shiro.”

The sound of the pews creaking tell him someone is wandering.

**_“You couldn’t have.”_ **

Matt disagrees, sobs wracking his frame with the confirmation of his fears.

“I should have _been_ there.”

Footfalls follow the guilty, and when he feels just _too close_ , the rebel wants to run — but all he can do is bury his face in his arms over the casket.

**_“Then you’d be dead, too.”_ **

“I don’t care!”

But, he _does;_ he knows he can’t leave everyone behind, even if he wants to, because Shiro’s work is never done. And if he doesn’t do it himself, no one will. He has to stay and protect Pidge, stand by Keith, be everything the man once was and hopes that it still _feels_ like he’s giving the person he loves everything he’s ever deserved.

A few throaty hiccups follow his whimpers, even though he’s trying his best not to cry anymore. His efforts don’t help, and he only releases an unintelligible race of words with no start or end, pressing his ear to the marble in the hopes that he hears a quiet organ beat.

He doesn’t and it overwhelms him with grief.

“I want to open my eyes and see you again,” he whispers meekly, each breath a wave of fresh tears as he feels a part of himself slip away.

**_“You can’t.”_ **

The voice doesn’t hesitate to answer, always so smooth and sure, and like _him._

Matt almost feels calm and then, he doesn’t, sobbing shakily against the dead man holding him up.

“What am I supposed to _do_ without you, Takashi?”

Footsteps grow loud, and he is unable to express the breaking of his heart when he feels the pressure of one last kiss on his crown.

**_“You’ll be alright.”_ **

> _You’ll b e al r ight._
> 
> _Yo u’ll be alr i g ht._
> 
> _You’ll … e alrig ht.  
>  _

_**“You’ll be…”**  
_

Matt opens his eyes.

His cheeks are stained dry from his aching, but he thinks little about it, only standing tall and turning around — hoping for a glimpse — _one last look._

But no one is there.

And he feels left behind again.

He’s sure of what happened, as sure as he’s ever been, but he doesn’t feel the satisfaction that should come with it; he doesn’t feel that relief. Instead, he looks back at the tomb with watering eyes and quivering lips; he wishes he could tell Shiro that this isn’t what he wants, not so soon.

Part of him prays that the man never lets him rest, that he haunts every aspect of his life like a specter waiting to pull him into the arms of death as well. He doesn’t want to forget how it feels to lose him, doesn’t want to forget the feeling of a kiss pressed to his head and a promise that can never be kept.

He lets himself cry again.

“Matt?” Looking up, he sees his sister in the doorway, concerned and peeking around the corner as if she’s afraid to step inside. She speaks timidly, unlike herself, but he can’t bring his body forward to comfort her. “You were talking to yourself and I got worried. Are you alright?”

Matt doesn’t turn away, staring into her eyes with the slow fall of damp lashes, talking to anyone _but_ Pidge.

“No… No, I don’t think I ever will be.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come scream with me (or at me) on [Tumblr](https://birdsandivory.tumblr.com)!


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